


I've Been to the Mountaintop

by sugarboat



Category: BioShock Infinite
Genre: Changing Tenses, F/M, Hand Jobs, M/M, Multi, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Threesome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-05
Updated: 2016-12-05
Packaged: 2018-09-06 18:35:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8764423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sugarboat/pseuds/sugarboat
Summary: Robert calls it a 'kindness,' Rosalind calls it a 'dalliance,' and Booker's caught in the middle.





	

“Every possible event has already happened. Or is happening currently. Or will?”

“You’re just making excuses.” 

“It’s inevitability, darling.” 

“An outcome is hardly inevitable if you’re the one tweaking variables in its favor.”

“Thereby furthering its inevitability.” 

Rosalind heaved a sigh and Robert knew he had won. She leveled a dreadfully serious and unimpressed expression his way. Does his own brow quirk upwards like that in annoyance? But it’s all in jest, a facetious argument he knows he would be making – had made, does make – were he the one on the other end of the conversation. His lips twisted in amusement.

“I’ve lost this argument before, haven’t I?”

“Perhaps you’re still going to,” she muses. Her eyes narrow and then in tandem they turn. It wasn’t clear when they were, but the clouds outside were fluffy and patriotic. No Elizabeth. They shared a glance – which timeline was this? But it would serve for his purposes. Their purposes, truly. “Is this the sinner or the saved?” 

“The sinner, one should hope – look at the beard!”

“Or lack thereof.”

“Five o’clock shadow.”

“Closer to seven or eight.”

“Now you’re simply being contrarian.” Robert said, but he couldn’t shake her disproval. She had already bent to his whims, and as stiff as she was, he wondered how much farther she would be pushed. “Consider it a kindness.”

“I consider it a dalliance,” she responds. “One never knows just which crushed butterfly will precipitate the disaster.” 

“When disaster is the default, how much worse could one endeavor to make it?” At that, finally, she laughed, and Robert felt some tension ease. Odd that a tightening of muscle fibers, tugging against ligament and bone, could so affect one’s mood. 

There’s a brief static discharge and time makes its presence known. It’s another tugging, and Robert finds it almost difficult to imagine a, _time_ , when its forward flow was all he’d known. He feels so separate from it. And so close to it. And so before it. There’s a headache on the way, or here already, and Rosalind places a hand on his shoulder. Her slim fingers grip him tight.

“Well, shall we wake the slumbering giant?” 

“Allow me,” he says. Robert leans over the messy figure sprawled on the bed and taps his shoulder. Booker grouched in his sleep and rolled over, not deterred in the slightest. “This is hardly the time to be so stalwart.” He rapped his fingers against the hard bone of Booker’s scapula.

The rough cut man came to awareness slowly and, honestly, who could sleep so deeply in an unknown city, when he was here to do a job? Well, Robert supposed it was better than immediately casting Columbia into revolt and bloodshed. Booker finally opened his eyes and rolled back round, easing himself into a sitting position.

“Look, he’s been wounded,” Rosalind comments with arms crossed over her chest. 

“Not a shocking development.”

“No good for our purposes.”

“We’ve made do with worse.” 

“Quite.”

Booker stares at them with bleary eyes. Then his face scrunches almost comically and he rubs his eyes, as though with force he could scrub their image from his retinas. He appeared nearly disappointed when he looked at them again. 

“Do you require assistance?” Robert offers. His green eyes follow Booker’s hand as it inches towards the edge of his bed, where he no doubt stashes his weapons. “I don’t think you’ve ever shot us, Mr. DeWitt.” The brunet freezes.

“No, I don’t believe he has,” Rosalind said. “I don’t believe he ever will. There is only so much wiggle room, after all.”

“Indeed.” 

“You guys are giving me a headache,” Booker replies. His voice is rough from sleep and when he moves a certain way – leaning to one side or another – his otherwise symmetric features warp into a wince. “Can I help you with something?” 

“You are helping us.”

“And _we_ are helping you.”

“None of this is helpful.” Both the Luteces are smiling and it makes Booker feel on edge. There’s something off about the two of them, and he always feels like he’s following about 30 feet back when he’s talking to them. 

“I’ll grant you that,” Robert said. “Although we did already offer.”

“I don’t need assistance.” So forceful, so tactless. Booker to the core, except when he is Comstock. 

“Are you so certain about that?” 

“Because from our perspective, it appears you may be wounded.”

“Perhaps mortally so.”

“I’m f-” cut off with a grunt. “…Fine.”

The twins shared another glance. Robert leaned back in and snaked his hand around to the side Booker had been favoring, pressed the pads of his fingers against the tender area. Taken off guard, Booker let out a hiss of pain and jerked backwards, banging his head against the wall. With an expression more smug than it probably needed to be, Robert pulled away again, holding his fingers up. They were wet and shiny with blood.

“It’s nothing,” Booker snaps. Robert looks at him expectantly and wiggles his fingers. “Nothing I can’t handle.”

“Oh come now, we _are_ doctors,” Rosalind says.

“Physicists,” Booker argues.

“Still one more PhD than you’ve got to your name,” Robert says.

“Two if we’re counting.”

“Who says we are?” Booker seemed displeased.

“Either way,” Rosalind continues, “of the three of us in this room, two of us are experts-”

“And _one_ of us has experienced live combat, so-”

“A point that, to be sure, would be taken under further consideration if said ‘combat expert’-” Robert made sure to emphasize this with the appropriate hand gesture, seeming immune to Booker’s pointed scowl. “-weren’t currently trying to sleep away a bullet wound.”

Quiet falls over the room. Like the proverbial sharks smelling blood, the Luteces look far too… content. The cats that got the cream. Booker can tell he’s losing. He sighs and they look between themselves. 

“All right.” Booker gave in. 

“Oh?”

“All right?”

“Yes!” Anything to stop this two-headed interrogation. “Whatever will get the two of you to shut it.” 

Robert places his clean hand in the middle of Booker’s sternum and applies a slight, clinical pressure until Booker is leaning his weight against the wall behind him. Rosalind sidles in closer as well, peering intently at the man’s ragged shirt. The dark material is well suited for hiding all manner of cuts and bruises, but her eyes focus in on the growing wet patch that makes the fabric cling tighter to his skin.

“Well, what do you think?” Robert asked. “Your _professional_ opinion.” 

“A bullet hole with no bullet.” 

“Intriguing. Where did it go?”

“Out the other side, one would imagine.”

“I _told_ you I was fine.” Booker’s complaints are silenced once more, but this time it is Rosalind who has her fingers against his side.

“There’s no place in the examination room for backtalk from the patient,” she stated plainly. “Besides, you were most certainly not fine – you would have bled out here, in this drafty little room, were it not for our intervention.” 

“And then what would Elizabeth do?” Robert adds. 

“And then what would _you_ do?” Rosalind finishes. 

They’re both staring at him disapprovingly, and Booker throws his hands up, grunting in near immediate regret of his actions.

“I get it, I get it,” he mutters and begins to unbutton his shirt. At the last button, Robert moves forward in a fluid motion, slipping a hand under either side of the shirt and pushing it away from Booker’s chest, down his arms. Rosalind joins in too, her touch precise as she carefully peels the wet material off of his wound.

“There we are,” she murmurs. “One perfectly punctured entrance wound. And, judging from the angle…” With a stern hand, she guides Booker to lean forward. Robert’s splayed hands rest against his chest and provide him support. When Booker glances up, Robert meets his eyes with one side of his lips quirked upwards. Rosalind pulls the remains of his shirt down, exposing his back. “Ah ha!”

“Have you found what you were looking for?” Robert answered his sister but his gaze was fixed to Booker. The brunet struggled not to move.

“Whenever have I not?” Rosalind turns away from Booker, facing her back towards him so his view of her hands is obscured. 

“A force to be reckoned with,” Robert replies. His smirk only widens and Booker finds himself transfixed somehow. The Luteces were always intense – and confusing – but this feels different somehow. The redhead flips back around and in her hands is a syringe, some liquid glossy and red filled to overflowing within.

“Hold still, this will pinch,” she says. Booker only gets out the beginning of a threat before the needle is shoved into his side, right beside his open wound. “And then burn.” She presses the plunger down and it feels like the hole carved through him has been set on fire. “Brother, be a dear and hold him steady, would you? All that thrashing is bound to interfere.”

“My pleasure.” Those hands are off his chest in a flash, iron grips around his forearms, and Rosalind’s hands cup either side of his neck and drag him upwards with gentle guidance. Weight settles across his legs, and beyond the all-encompassing searing shooting _through_ him, Booker recognizes that Robert has climbed into his lap, using his body to keep him still.

“The things I do for you,” Rosalind comments, and Robert makes a shushing noise.

Pain stretches out seconds into minutes and hours, but eventually Booker slumps, breathing heavy, a thin layer of sweat accumulating along his skin. Slim and cool fingers card through his hair, pausing to run up and down and up at the base of his neck. He opens his eyes to find he is leaning his forehead against Robert’s shoulder, and the other man has moved his hands from his arms to his sides.

“Welcome back, Mr. DeWitt.” From his position, he could feel Robert’s chest reverberate on every word. His mouth moved against the soft fabric of the redhead’s coat. 

“Is he trying to communicate?”

“Oh, give him a moment.”

“I already have – more than one. I say we call the experiment here, he is clearly-”

“’M fine,” Booker slurs. “What the hell was in that syringe?” 

“Nothing to worry about.”

“You wouldn’t understand even if we told you.” 

“What ever happened to bedside manner?” Robert titled Booker’s head up, and Rosalind’s fingers were still in his hair. 

“Whatever indeed.” Robert closes the scant distance between them, lips brushing against Booker’s without hesitance. The gunman’s lips are chapped and windburnt but Robert hardly finds that disagreeable. Rosalind’s grip tightens and she gives a pointed tug, and Booker’s mouth slips open. The twin in his lap shifts forward and a tongue slides into his mouth. 

Somehow, Booker’s hands end up resting on Robert. More than resting, fingers digging in to the small of his back and pinning the physicist in place. The kiss ends and Robert pulls away, tongue darting out to swipe along his lip. Booker’s gaze is glued to the sight until subtle pressure from Rosalind has him turning his head, and the other twin is leaning in as well, meeting his lips with the same self-assurance as the first had. 

He’s pretty sure he bled out after all.

Regardless of his personal thoughts on the matter, he finds himself leaning upwards into her touch. For such a clinical and exacting mind, the way her tongue moves… Or perhaps it makes sense that she knows the precise way to dip in and withdraw, to pull him into following her lead. Robert’s hand grazes along his chest and Booker feels the man lap at the tender junction of his jaw and neck, before soft lips are brushing over his skin, before blunt teeth are dragging against him. 

Booker’s eyes slip open and he isn’t entirely sure when they shut in the first place. Rosalind is pulling away from him and she looks smug in a way that would normally do nothing beyond pissing him off. But in this one moment, that look feels like a promise and with her brother nibbling and sucking at his neck, he’s, well, outside of his comfort zone, to understate things. 

“Brother.” A muffled noise from Robert. “I believe I’ve come around to your way of thinking.” 

“I told you so,” Robert says, straightening finally. “Hmm, that felt quite nice this time.” 

“Satisfied?”

“Hardly.” 

“You talk too much,” Booker growls and one of his hands darts up to wrap around Robert’s necktie, yanking him back down. His other reaches blindly around the man and fumbles at Rosalind’s skirt, twisting in the tan material and urging her closer as well. Both the twins laugh at his impatience, one against his mouth and the other untangling his fingers from her clothes.

“What a gentleman,” Rosalind says. Booker’s eyes closed again, but when he opened them it’s to Robert smirking, his own twin’s pale arms wound about his neck and shoulders from behind. She was pressed up against him, and Booker had a moment to imagine what Robert must be feeling, her soft body flush along his own. And had a moment to wonder when, exactly, they lost their clothes. Like they can hear his thoughts, they share an amused glance. 

Robert lifts himself from Booker’s lap, and then an R. Lutece is sitting on either side of him, each pinning one of his hands with one of their own and running lithe fingers up and down his body, pausing to tickle and ghost over various areas. Robert seems fixated upon the bony prominences of his body, his touch lingering over his hips, up the faint bumps of his ribcage and across his collarbones. Their eyes meet and the physicist playfully taps the taunt skin at the hollow of his throat, causing Booker to swallow involuntarily.

Rosalind’s hand slides coolly back and forth across his chest, following the patterns of his muscles and scars downwards. Her eyes flicker, from his body to his face, and Booker could believe that she was cataloguing every shift of his muscles, every twitch of his face and hitch of his breath. Perhaps predictably, neither of the twins pay any attention whatsoever to his growing erection, even when Rosalind’s hand moves down and begins to squeeze along his thigh, as though she is testing his muscle tone.

Well, now he just wishes he had bled out.

“Pulse rate: 76,” Rosalind announces, and Booker scowls when he notices her fingers have wrapped around his wrist, pressing innocuously against his pulse.

“Respirations: 18,” Robert replies and when Booker meets his eyes his grin broadens. “And pupils dilated – 5mm.” 

“Flushed skin, mild uncontrollable musculoskeletal spasms,” Rosalind continues. Booker’s starting to get fed up with this, and he’s just opening his mouth to call it off, shifting to throw them off. “I think we can do better, don’t you?” 

“Great minds think alike.” 

After a short period of bickering, the twins decided that they would first take turns. 

“This better not be one of those contests you two are so fond of,” Booker said, lying back across the bed and propping himself up on his elbows. 

“Whatever do you mean?”

“You know – heads or tails, bird or cage.”

“Rosalind or Robert?” The Luteces looked at each as though the idea had _never_ crossed their minds. A beat. “We would never.”

“It would hardly be fair.”

“Indeed,” Robert agrees immediately. And then he seemed to take pause as well. “And just _what_ do you mean by _that_ , I wonder?”

“It seems to be quite clear what I mean,” she replies. 

Booker sighed. Whatever weird rivalry they constantly had going with each other, he wanted no part of it. Of course, as they were so fond of pointing out, every side had its opposite, every hand its other – the pat on the back that came with the shove off the cliff. In other words, the bright side of life, as Elizabeth would say, and Jesus, he did _not_ want to be thinking about her at the moment.

He was forcibly removed from his thoughts by a hand wrapping around his cock and he let out a breath hissed through his teeth. Robert dragged his hand carefully up and down. There were just the faintest of calluses along his finger tips and palms, no doubt from handcrafting reality-breaking machines for a living. Booker could feel a flush creeping across his skin as he was coaxed back to full hardness.

Both of the twins were glued to his reactions, and he felt like some sort of science experiment. He could feel Robert adjusting his grip with almost minuscule detail, tightening here, loosening there, twisting his wrist just so. Booker’s breathing hitched with one particular stroke. _Always look on the bright side of life._ The Luteces looked more excited now than they had even before. 

“If you intend to waste your turn, then just let someone else have a go,” Rosalind says. She had leaned in close to her brother, her lips almost brushing against his ear. Robert turns his head towards her, just a fraction to the side.

“Feeling a bit eager, are we?” Robert’s wearing a grin now that he seems to reserve for his twin alone. Rosalind returns it, and Booker takes the moment to let his eyes wander over them, long limbs and pale skin, light patterns of freckles that are barely visible. 

“I don’t know, are we?” Nonsensical, at least to Booker, but that was half of their conversations anyway. 

“ _One_ of you two needs to get on-” _with it_ , Booker finishes in his mind as aloud his sentence ends in a groan. Robert drooped down and wrapped his lips around the head of his cock, sucking lightly, and Booker’s hips twitch when a tongue slides over its tip. 

He can’t do much thinking, then, as Robert begins to bob his head, the same calculating manner as before, though it carries an urgency that might divulge some of the redhead’s more personal interest in the matter. It doesn’t take long for him to find a pace that has Booker’s hand twisting in the sheets. Up and down, his tongue pressing along the underside of his dick, his hand moving faster below and slicked with his own saliva. 

Booker’s entire body feels ablaze, his head thrown back against the pillows, eyes clamped shut as he tries his best to keep from squirming, writhing beneath Robert’s ministrations. The tempo Robert had built up suddenly slows, becoming languid. Now the man sucks and laves at him almost luridly, taking him deeper into his mouth on each down stroke. Booker lifts his head to watch and finds Rosalind with her fingers tangled in Robert’s red hair, guiding his movements up and down.

“Fuck,” he manages to breathe out, Rosalind’s eyes flicking up to meet his gaze with a smile as she pushes her brother down further on his cock. There’s a slight flush to both the twins’ faces, more pronounced across Robert’s high cheekbones. Booker tosses his head back again, his hips giving an aborted, mindless buck.

Heat coils tight in his stomach, Booker certain he’s about to lose it when Robert takes his cock fully in his mouth, in his throat, and he has to clench his hands to keep from fisting them in Robert’s hair himself. And then Robert is disengaging from him entirely, wringing some pathetic, whining noise from the back of his throat that has both Luteces chuckling at his display.

“Do you think he wants to call the game early?” Rosalind asks.

“That’s not very sporting of him,” Robert replies, voice breathy and rough at the edges. It makes Booker want to drag him back down onto his dick.

“Shut up,” Booker manages to groan out. The temptation is rising to wrap his own hand around his cock and finish himself off, but it’s just barely suppressed as the twins shift positions. Robert moves to his side and Rosalind sidles in between his spread legs, a cool hand on either of his thighs. Booker tries to hold still but his muscles twitch, and he fidgets when he feels a bead of precum dribble down the side of his aching cock. 

“Poor thing,” Rosalind says, sounding for all the world like she’s never even heard of the concept of empathy. Even so, her soft hand encircles him and Booker gasps as she slides up and down his still slick length.

Booker’s thrusts up into her hand, meeting her on every smooth, downward stroke. The sensation is almost enough for him to miss her other hand slipping lower, fingers wet and viscous running over his skin and leaving a cool trail behind them. And one slips _inside_ him, the slight discomfort enough to make his hips stall for a moment.

“A little faith would go a long way,” she commented. Booker kept his complaints to himself, mostly due to Robert’s mouth meeting his again. It’s enough of a distraction - Robert’s tongue, Rosalind’s hand around him - until she crooks her finger just so and presses, and Booker’s seeing stars, moaning into their kiss, hips twitching and unsure if he needs to thrust forwards or lean back. 

Every rub of her finger inside him sends bolt of heat searing through his body until he’s certain he must be shaking, certain that he has never felt such straining for relief. He grows sloppy with Robert, until they part so Booker can pant and moan and writhe beneath the twins. _Please, please,_

“Please,” Booker mutters aloud, and is immediately rewarded with Rosalind’s mouth on his length and one more hard, firm press inside him has him coming all over her tongue. A groan escapes him when he feels her swallow around him, and his tensely wound body slumps as soon as she pulls free from him.

If the twins say anything to one another, Booker doesn’t hear it over the rushing tide of his heartbeat in his ears. It slows to a dull thump as his thought processes creak back into full function, and he looks to Robert first, who’s looking at Rosalind, who’s licking her lips and watching Booker. The gunman clears his throat and Robert turns his head to watch him as well. 

“So, am I supposed to, uh, choose…?” he trails off, and any slight apprehension he may have held is quashed when both the Luteces start laughing at him.

“Oh no, not at all.”

“That’s not how this particular exercise works.”

“And besides, this is only round one.” 

Booker stayed annoyed for exactly as long as it took for their words to sink in.

“Round one?” He hopes he doesn’t sound too excited.

“Yes,” Rosalind says. “And a bit of reciprocity every now and again never hurt anyone.” 

“Never?” asks Robert.

“Well, perhaps not never.”


End file.
